


weak spot

by emAvox



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Blood, Gen, M/M, Slow Burn, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2014-06-06
Packaged: 2018-02-03 14:12:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1747499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emAvox/pseuds/emAvox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wash rolls out of the way of Maine’s tackle, comes up on one knee, and launches himself into York, knocking down both he and North. Wash uses his momentum to somersault back onto his feet and flat-out sprint toward the door. He turns the doorknob, pushes the door open, and falls through it. The freelancers he’s left behind scream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	weak spot

**Author's Note:**

> For some reason, I just really wanted Locus to wail on Tucker.

Wash is sitting at a picnic table with Carolina and North, relaxing in the sun with a beer in one hand. York is having a one-sided conversation with Maine at the grill, and South and Connie are whispering over by the cooler. Wash thinks that it’s nice, relaxing like this. They don’t get to do it much in their line of work. He’s kind of sleepy, so he can’t really remember at the moment where they are or why they’re here, but he’ll gladly take this peaceful moment. The sound is somewhat muted but he can hear muffled voices from where he’s lounging.

            He opens his eyes when he feels a hand in his hair and lips on his forehead, but no one’s standing in front of him. He turns his head to ask Carolina if she had done it, but finds himself alone. Wash sits up slowly, places his beer on the table and wipes the condensation off of his hand onto his shorts, looking around. He can still hear voices, low and soft and quiet, but he doesn’t see anyone. To be honest, he’s kind of starting to freak out. He takes a few steps forward, hears “Wash?” and turns to see Carolina and the rest looking at him like he’d grown a second head.

“I-“ he starts.

            “Are you feeling okay?” York asks, his eyebrows creasing his smooth forehead in concern. He presses a hand to Wash’s cheek, checks his temperature. “You don’t feel warm.”

            “…Yeah. I’m fine.” South grabs him gently by the shoulder and starts to guide him back to the picnic table, away from the edge of the clearing. Wash looks back and sees a door between the trees, but Connie grabs the back of his neck and turns his head forward. The next time he looks back, the door is gone.

-          -

Wash realizes after quite a while (longer than it should have taken him- maybe something _is_ wrong with him…) that time doesn’t actually pass in this clearing that he and his fellow freelancers have claimed. Occasionally a new person will appear, Florida or Wyoming, but they never stay for long. Wash figures that they would stay longer if he was closer to them, like the regular cast, which, he’s also figured out, only speak to him on a loop. After a while, their conversations come full circle and start again. He doesn’t say anything because this whole situation just seems odd to him. Where are they? Why are they here? And why does he feel like he’s missing something important?

-          -

“ **We’re under attack!** ”

 _Tucker_ , he realizes with a jolt. The name has been on the tip of his tongue for what seems like forever. _Tucker Caboose Grif Simmons Donut Doc Sarge Lopez Freckles_. He suddenly remembers them all. He remembers Blood Gulch, Valhalla, remembers the canyon on Chorus, remembers the battles with the Meta and Locus, _Freckles, shake_ , remembers the holding cell, Locus trying to fuck with his mind, bullets in the wall the last time his cell door was opened. His friends, he thinks, his friends are in danger, those _idiots_ , and they need his help or else they’re going to die, just like everyone else he’s ever cared about.

Wash sits up, on high alert, scans the edge of the clearing for the door, _that door he should have gone through that door!_ He catches the attention of his friends and they slowly move toward him.

“Wash?” North asks, concerned. Wash would be fooled if the other man didn’t look scared. “What are you looking for? There’s nothing out there.”

Wash doesn’t answer, goes back to searching the trees until he spots it- dark mahogany, nearly blending in with the tree trunks, maybe forty feet away. His view is blocked abruptly.

Maine stands before him in full armor, the white paint shining and new in the sun, Wash’s face reflected in his clean visor. His body language spells out something dangerous, suggests that Wash should stay where he is or he’ll be stopped from moving by force.

“Maine,” Wash says the name like a warning, but gets no response. He tries again. “ _Meta_.”

A full-throated growl erupts from the large man’s throat and he leans forward, menacing, threatening, but this time, Wash doesn’t back down. He refuses. His friends are out there, past that door, and they’re still alive. Agent Washington stands, stares down Maine, his old best friend, his dead best friend, dead like Tucker could be if Wash doesn’t get out of this clearing _right this goddamn minute_.

He starts hearing screams coming from the door, gunfire and shrieks of agony, so he gathers up his strength and makes a move. He fakes left and sprints past Maine on his other side, makes it about halfway to the door (he’d always been one of Freelancer’s fastest sprinters) before Connie tries to swipe his legs out from under him. He stumbles enough for Carolina to clip the back of his helmet (when did everyone start wearing their armor?) with a quick jab. Wash counters with a kick of his leg, a sloppy move, as South grabs his ankle, spins him around, and slams him into the ground. Wash rolls out of the way of Maine’s tackle, comes up on one knee, and launches himself into York, knocking down both he and North. Wash uses his momentum to somersault back onto his feet and flat-out sprint toward the door. He turns the doorknob, pushes the door open, and falls through it. The freelancers he’s left behind scream.

-          -

Wash opens his eyes, takes in a blurry sheer curtain around his bed, feels the prick of an IV in the back of his hand, and levels his eyes in time to see Tucker crash through the glass door at the front of the room.

-          -

The glass shatters loudly and suddenly Wash can hear. The sound of gunfire and death echoes loudly in the small hospital room he’s in, but the sound Tucker makes as he slams into the ground is the loudest. It takes the blue soldier a few moments to get up, the blood on his armor _not his please not his_ making the checkered tile slick. He’s breathing laboriously, and he clutches his side as he hauls himself unsteadily to his feet. Tucker stumbles, sways, and a few pieces of his armor are hanging on by sheer force of will. He’s absolutely battered, and his wrecked armor shows it. His visor is cracked like someone tried to stab through, a small sliver of glass missing over his right eye.

Wash breathes deeply, feels the familiar tug of bandages around his ribs, and tries to move without success. Tucker freezes in front of him when the sound of glass crunching underfoot reaches them. The dark room is lit as Tucker pulls out his sword with a flick of his wrist, the blue-purple glow of the blade highlighting the hard lines of his armor and illuminating their shabby surroundings. Locus steps forward to stand in the doorway.

-          -

“I’ll only make this offer one more time, Lavernius Tucker.” Locus speaks like he stands, like he’s standing now, still and stiff, a feline taking his time before pouncing.

“Go to hell.” Tucker snarls. Wash remembers the way his lip curls up as he says that.

Locus continues like Tucker hasn’t spoken. “We’ve killed enough of your rebels to make up for the men you’ve killed. Give us the agent, and we’ll call it even.”

Locus begins to slink forward slowly, testing the waters, as well as Tucker’s patience. He gets a bit too close and is rewarded with a swipe of Tucker’s sword. His proficiency with his weapon of choice has declined with his injuries, Wash guesses. Tucker’s wrist trembles under the weight of the alien artifact. Wash wonders if it’s broken, wishes he could move more than his twitching fingers and toes, wishes he could help.

“Over my dead body.” Tucker swears. The solemnity of his answer floors Wash because he never thought that Tucker of all people would be the one defending him at this moment.

“That can be arranged.” Locus is all but purring as he and Tucker circle each other. “Aren’t you tired, Tucker?” he asks, feigning concern. “ _Palomo was tired, too_.”

Tucker jerks to a halt and Wash can see his metaphorical hackles rise. Wash is begging Tucker in his mind, _don’t listen to him_ , as he starts quietly pulling off the tape holding his IV in place, but Tucker, the lover, not the thinker or the fighter, falls for it.

“What did you just say?” Tucker says darkly. His stance is more aggressive now, less guarded, and Locus uses the opportunity to slam his fist against Tucker’s ribcage. The blue soldier creases in half, allowing Locus to slam his conjoined fists against the blue soldier’s spine.

“I took his helmet as a trophy.” Locus tells him. He kicks Tucker’s helmet when the other man tries to get up, the resounding clang making Wash flinch as he pulls out his IV. “I recorded his screams to listen to later.” He plants his foot on Tucker’s throat, presses down until Tucker wheezes and scrambles out from under him, stumbles to his feet.

“You’re lying.” Tucker croaks, desperate. He’s barely standing at this point, blood dripping from the open gashes of his armor. He switches his sword to his left hand.

“Oh, no.” Locus croons, the smile evident in his voice. “No lies here. Do you want to hear the truth, Tucker?”

Tucker stills and Wash can tell that he’s nearly defeated, can tell by the slumping shoulders that he is listening to every word that Locus says. Wash casts his eyes around for a weapon and comes up with nothing. In an instant, Locus pulls a knife, hefts it, and lets it fly. It hits its mark, the small gap between Tucker’s chest plate and arm guard, and he lets out a muffled scream as it sinks into his shoulder, rendering his left arm practically useless. Tucker’s sword drops to the ground and the blade retracts as the man grasps the new wound.

Wash’s hands are scrambling as discreetly as possible around the area, his movement less noticeable due to the sheer curtain surrounding his bed. He curses softly when he slices his finger open on a loose bar on the bed’s guard rail. He grabs it with both hands and sets to prying it off to use as a weapon. His eyes, however, stay focused on Tucker.

The blue soldier is at a severe disadvantage with a broken wrist and a knife embedded in his shoulder, along with the injuries that Wash can’t see, but he is refusing to stay down.

“ _He screamed for you_.” Locus hisses, lurching forward to attack. Tucker blocks most of the mercenary’s punches but a few slam into him. He stumbles back a step. Wash’s fingers are cut and bloody, making the iron bar slick. His hands slip.

“Will Agent Washington scream for you, too?” Locus taunts. Tucker launches himself at the other man, cracks a fist across his helmet before Locus lands a jab to Tucker’s unprotected abdomen. The armor remaining there trembles and a few pieces of it fall off.

“You’ll have to kill me before you take him.” Tucker snarls. He places his weakened, bloody body between Locus and Wash, and Wash is breathless in the wake of Tucker’s devotion. He wonders how long it’s been there, how he could have possibly missed it.

“Gladly.” Locus launches himself at Tucker, has obviously been holding back and toying with him, and gets in a quick succession of punches. He grabs the knife in Tucker’s shoulder and _twists_ , and Tucker screams in agony as his knees buckle. Wash looks away, gathers what strength he has, and pulls on the iron bar until it comes loose in his hands.

Wash topples off of his bed with the iron bar in hand. It clangs loudly against the floor, but neither of the other men can hear it over the background noise of gunfire. He drags himself to his feet, leaning against the bed on unsteady legs while Locus viciously beats on Tucker. _Don’t die don’t die don’t die_ , he repeats like a mantra, a plea, a prayer. Wash stands to his full height and catches Tucker’s attention, the blue soldier’s eye visibly widening through the crack in his helmet.

The lack of attention costs him.

Locus grabs the knife in his shoulder, rips it out, slams it back into Tucker’s abdomen, and Tucker finally falls. He collapses on the floor in a heap, coughing wetly, and tries to drag himself away from Locus. Locus watches his progress silently, amusement clear in his body language, like he’s enjoying watching Wash’s second in command suffer. Locus takes a few steps forward to keep up with Tucker’s progress across the floor and turns his back to Washington in order to fully enjoy the view.

“Why are you doing this?” Tucker chokes out. He’s leaving a streak of blood as he painstakingly drags himself across the floor. Washington grinds his teeth, checks the jagged edge of the iron bar in his hand, and waits for an opening. Tucker reaches out desperately for his discarded sword, barely a foot away, but Locus steps on his broken wrist and grinds it into the ground with the heel of his boot. Wash surges forward before he checks himself, straining against his need to attack as Tucker spasms in pain.

Locus leans down to whisper to Tucker, exposing his armor’s only weak spot that Wash knows of- a small, triangular expanse between where his helmet ends and his neck guard begins. Wash readjusts his grip on his make-shift weapon, keeps waiting, wincing every time Tucker moans in agony. He hates himself a little more every time he doesn’t step in, but he has to wait, he reminds himself, _I have to_.

“Because it’s _fun_.” Locus lets out a single laugh, something harsh and unforgiving, and shifts until he’s kneeling on top of Tucker, pinning his shoulders with his knees. Tucker is still trying to get away, weakly pushing at the ground with his legs, but Locus puts more pressure on his wounded shoulder and Tucker bites off a wail.

“You know what’ll be even more fun?” Locus asks. His fingers glide gently along the underside of Tucker’s helmet, searching for the clasp to unclip it. Wash hopes that he won’t have to witness what he thinks he will, the implication of the action clear in Locus’ crouched position above Tucker. Quietly brushing aside the curtain, the ex-freelancer creeps forward until he stands silently behind Locus, waiting for an opening.

Locus finds the clasp and unhinges Tucker’s helmet, ripping it off of his head and tossing it aside. The metal clanks dully against the floor, loud against the slowly quieting sounds of the battle outside. Tucker’s face is bloody but his eyes are fighting to stay open. Wash feels a wave of guilt surge through him, _he did this for me_ , as well as a wave of pride for Tucker, the stubborn one, the guy who never gives up.

Tucker raises his eyes and sees Wash standing behind Locus, but doesn’t show any sign otherwise to acknowledge his presence. From Wash’s vantage point, it seems like Tucker’s looking at Locus, and he hopes that Locus thinks the same. The mercenary puts more pressure on Tucker’s shoulder, but the only response he gets is Tucker drawing in a stuttering breath. Locus rocks his hips forward and Wash has the startling realization that he’s getting off on this. The thought leaves him feeling sick.

“Do you know what will be even more fun, Tucker?” Locus asks again, obviously expecting a response. Tucker looks at him, gives a small shake of his head. Locus leans forward, abruptly crushing Tucker’s windpipe between his hands.

“Killing both of _you_.” He snarls. He uses his grasp on Tucker’s throat to wrench his head up and bash his unprotected skull against the floor once, twice, three times. Tucker’s eyelids are fluttering and Locus leans forward again, to do what, he doesn’t know, but Washington uses the opening to thrust the sharp end of the metal rod into Locus’ neck as hard as he can.

-          -

There’s a sickening noise that Locus makes as Wash throws all of his body weight onto the rod. It’s something between a cough and a question, but he doesn’t get to finish before Wash is yanking up and severing his spine with a quick _snick_.

-          -

Locus slowly falls over onto his side, twitching, and Wash yanks the rod out of his neck only to smash it through his visor, right into his head. He stops moving after that. Wash collapses to his knees, exhausted, and drags himself over to Tucker.

The blue soldier isn’t moving, but he is breathing, his glassy eyes staring at the ceiling. His blood is everywhere and Wash takes off his shirt, wads it up, and uses it to put pressure on Tucker’s shoulder. Tucker lets out a soft keen of pain. He’d cut his hair to regulation length and now it’s covered in blood. Wash spares a moment to miss his dreadlocks.

“Tucker.” Wash pants, like he can’t believe that the man in front of him is actually there. “Tucker.”

Tucker focuses on Wash after he speaks, eyes closing in relief after a few moments of searching his face. “Wash,” he murmurs, “is Locus- Is he…”

“Yeah, Tucker.” Wash almost laughs. Almost. “We got him.”

Tucker breathes out a sigh. Wash realizes that it’s quiet outside, only the occasional gun firing off a shot. He hopes that’s a good sign.

“I’m-” Tucker is cut off by a violent coughing fit, and Wash is alarmed to see him hack up blood.

“Tucker?” he asks urgently. “ _Tucker?_ ”

People are calling for someone outside. Wash thinks that some of them sound familiar. Suddenly, a man stumbles in, the dim light from the corridor accentuating the orange accents on his armor.

“Holy shit!” he exclaims. He all but slaps his hand against the side of his helmet in excitement. “Sir!” he shouts into his comm unit. “I found them!”

There’s a muffled reply and Wash is torn between keeping pressure on Tucker’s shoulder and grabbing for the pipe again when the man says, “Oh, yeah. Shit. Sorry, sir.”

“Agent Washington?” the man asks. Wash nods his head slightly, ready to defend the man bleeding out under his hands. “My name is Lieutenant Bitters and I’m in Sergeant Grif’s squad.”

The man pops off his helmet and tucks it under his arm, revealing a young man of about twenty with dark skin and vibrant green eyes. “I don’t know what this means but Sarge told me to ask you how his bumper tasted.”

Tucker laughs before Wash does. “Tell Grif to shut up and get over here.” the injured man wheezes. “Nice to see you, Bitters. Mind giving Wash a hand?”

Bitters sighs like Tucker has just asked for the moon

-          -

While Tucker is being operated on in the makeshift infirmary the New Republic sets up after the attack, Wash sits down with Simmons and Grif, both of whom had already been patched up, and waits for an explanation. It’s obvious that someone, probably Tucker, requested that they not tell Wash what happened, but Wash has mad skills when it comes to the cold shoulder. Neither of them last very long in the silence.

“Okay,” Simmons starts, already waving his hands around frantically. “We’ll tell you! Just stop with the silent treatment!”

Grif huffs out half of a sigh and settles more deeply into his chair. “Fine. Here’s what happened. We rescued you and Sarge and Donut about a week ago. Since then, Locus has been creeping around trying to find you guys- or, _you_ , more specifically.”

Simmons leans forward into Wash’s line of sight. “When we rescued you guys, you got a pretty nasty bump on the head, Wash. You got knocked out and didn’t wake up. Tucker was really worried…”

Grif snorts, scratches his head, and leans toward Wash like he’s sharing a secret. “Dude didn’t leave your beside for, like, two whole days. I think he’s got a crush on you, man.”

Wash leans back in his chair and thinks.

-          -


End file.
